Airborne - Travers' Legacy
by Kanuro5
Summary: Boyd Travers fights the war with his comrades of the 82nd Airborne Division from Sicily 1943 to Germany 1945 and tries to survive. He will experience heroic adventures, the bonding of comrades and friends, the savagery of war, and the soul-shattering deaths of friends. A more realistic approach than the game. Rated M for Graphic War Violence and Strong Language. AU.
1. First Kill

**1**

**First Kill**

A soldier's reaction after their first kill in war can range from an entire spectrum of emotion. The soldier could feel: satisfaction, sadness, anger, regret, indifference, nauseous, justified, loneliness, or callousness. For 21 year-old paratrooper Private First Class Boyd Oliver Travers, his reaction was pure confusion.

He was lying on his back on a dirt road in pitch black darkness of the midnight hour, shaking violently and panting wildly as he held his M1 Garand from the hip, the steel barrel still smoking from the fateful shot. The burning smell of cordite lingered in the air and the nighttime humidity wafted the odor into a distasteful stench. Yet Travers was oblivious to the smell. His chestnut eyes were adjusting to the dark, and were fixated in what was in front of him. Lying a few yards away from Travers, was the dead body of an Italian Blackshirt—with Travers' bullet in his skull.

Everything happened so fast that Travers thought it was a dream at first. But whenever he closed his eyes and opened them, he was still in the same spot holding the smoking rifle. This was no dream. He closed his eyes once again and tried to remember all that had happened.

This was the Invasion of Sicily also known as Operation _Husky_, the 10th of July 1943. Travers' Airborne Division—the 82nd Airborne—were flying into the dead of night to jump into Nazi held Sicily to fight off the Germans and Italians. But before they could fly above the island, the U.S. Navy below mistook the American C-47s for German planes, and opened fire on them. From his turbulent seat on the C-47, Travers could see plane after plane being shot from underneath, being engulfed in tremendous balls of fire before plummeting to the earth or the sea.

Soon after, his own plane was hit by the ships below and the left engine caught on fire. Everything became a blur to Travers. Men were screaming to get off, some men were lying dead from the flak piercing the hull of the plane, and the plane kept shaking and throwing the men from side to side. As the men rushed out of the plane once the green light lit up, Travers followed close behind to get out of the failing plane. Once he made it to the door, the constant and rigorous paratrooper training took over, and Travers jumped out of the plane without hesitation, without even thinking. But as Travers lied on the dirt road, through the constant excitement, he didn't even remember jumping out at all. The one thing he did remember was the sight of a seeing a C-47 with its right engine completely on fire plunging to the ground.

As Travers descended from the chaotic sky of flashing flak fire and burning planes, he gracefully landed in the middle of a large dirt road surrounded by shades of blackness that enveloped every ounce of light from the half-moon in the sky. But unbeknownst to Travers was that an Italian Blackshirt, who was strolling along a dirt road alone finishing his third bottle of wine, was no more than ten feet away from Travers when he dropped.

"_Tu chi sei_?!" The drunk Italian slurred in shock when he heard Travers drop right beside him.

Travers shuddered at the sudden phrase that came from behind him.

"_Tu chi sei, dissi_?" the Italian spoke louder, leaning his face in closer to distinguish what was in front of him.

Travers quickly spun around, realizing with sudden shock that the man behind him was speaking Italian. When he saw the man, the Blackshirt's dark olive grey uniform and cap blended in perfectly with the darkness, only leaving the Italian's pale white face visible. Just seeing the man's drooping face resembled that of a deceased spirit rising from the grave. Travers' jaw dropped and he let out a sudden shout of fear as he backed away from the supposed "phantom".

"_Tu chi sei? Che cosa siete_?!" the Blackshirt screamed, startled by the American's sudden shout.

The Italian unslung his Mauser rifle and fired it at the hip. If the man was sober, Private Travers would be no more. The sudden bright flash of light that erupted from the rifle barrel nearly blinded Travers who was adjusting to the dark. The sudden booming crack of the rifle from a few feet away nearly deafened Travers. But it was the Italian bullet, the bullet that missed Travers by inches that got Travers to think for his safety. And it was constantly drilled into every rifleman in the American Army—your rifle equals your safety.

Travers fell to his knees and began frantically patting the obscure ground to see where he had dropped his rifle. When he was on the plane, he had the rifle tightly slung over his shoulder. But after going through such crazed and turbulent events in the past five minutes, that rifle of his could have been at Hitler's personal estate for all Travers knew. He scrambled in the dirt to find that rifle. The Italian began to slowly and drunkenly chambered another round. Once Travers heard that bolt being pulled back, he searched his area a hell of a lot quicker.

Once his hand touched the wooden stock, Travers seized his rifle and flipped on his back and aimed it at the pale, swaying, lethargic face and pulled the trigger back in fear.

Nothing happened.

Travers panicked and repeatedly jerked the trigger back. Yet nothing happened.

_Goddamn it! Why is it not firing?!_ Travers thought.

"_Tu chi sei_?!" The Italian finally chambered his round.

At that moment, Travers suddenly remembered that the safety lock to his M1 was still on. Travers quickly pushed it off with an indrawn hiss of breath and with the rifle at his hip and with him lying on his back; Travers let out a panicked noise and pulled back the trigger. The jolt of the rifle and the sudden flash of the muzzle were barely noticeable to the frightened American private, for his eyes were focused on the pale face that stood in front of him. The face suddenly snapped back with tiny hints of pink mist arising from the face as the bullet sailed through the drunken man's skull. The Italian fell back like a fallen tree and landed on his back with a thud. He was dead before he hit the ground.

After finally gathering his thoughts on what had transpired, the shaken Travers slowly stood to his feet and walked over to the corpse. It was too dark to see where exactly he shot him, all he knew was that he shot him somewhere in the face. But he quickly remembered what a World War One veteran told him about the rare cases of men being shot in the face and head and still surviving from such fatal wounds.

The wary Travers, with his rifle pointed at the body, extended his foot out and softly kicked the stiff body in its ribcage to see if he was still alive. The body did not move. Travers kicked a little harder. The body did not move. Not even a grunt or noise in pain. It was silent and still. This was definitely not a rare case.

He did it. Travers had finally killed a Fascist just like he told his friends he would once they got into combat. That word reverberated in his mind. "Friends."

Travers looked around the area, hoping to see a tan parachute lying around, wishing to hear signs of American forces converging on the rifle shot, begging to see his friends or anyone else from his stick. But he saw no one. He only saw the never-ending darkness that covered this island. He heard nothing except for the ominous repeated chirping of Sicilian crickets within the grass. Travers bit down on his bottom lip. This was not supposed to go as plan. If planned, everyone should have been with a 100 yards of each other. But this was clearly not the case.

_Where was Reese? _Travers thought to himself, _He was right behind me…Where was Sergeant Dane? Where was Howe? Where was Little? Luckett got hit in the plane, so he shouldn't be here. But where was Captain King? He was leading the company and was on my plane. Hell, he was the jump master. I could have sworn the Lieutenant said he got hit, or did he? I don't know! Oh God…where is Lieutenant Carlton? Where was Toomes? Where were Wirth, Hawkins, McClain and Chenkov?_ _Shit…I would settle with Sergeant Setzer if had too? Where are they?! _

Travers grunted in frustration. "Where the hell is everybody?" he said to himself.

Travers spun around in circles trying to see through the darkness, trying to find any American near him. He tried to see anything that could give him the tiniest hope, but yet there was no one around him, no one except for the faceless Italian corpse beside him. Travers began to feel a rise of nausea in his stomach. He started gagging and cried out tiny little sobs. He planted the cold steel butt of his rifle to the dirt and took a knee, and began sobbing without tears. He finally came to the realization that him and every other paratrooper most likely misdropped and scattered all across the island. The nearest American could probably be miles away while the nearest Italian or German could be right behind him. It was his first time in war and he was behind enemy lines. And he was alone.


	2. 12 Hours Ago

**12 Hours Ago**

**2**

12 Hours ago, Travers was not alone. He was not on the strange island of Sicily surrounded by men who were trying to kill him. Travers was with his outfit and the rest of the 82nd Airborne Division in Kairouan, Tunisia. He sat in a large, dim tent filled with his comrades and friends as they awaited the battalion briefing by their battalion commander.

Private First Class Travers from Boston, Massachusetts belonged to G Company, 3rd Battalion, 500th Parachute Infantry Regiment. Travers was a simple rifleman in 1st Squad of the 1st platoon, under the command of Sergeant Jonathan Dane. Travers took a glance at Dane, sitting in the front of tent looking at the projector, and smirked. Dane was a carefree, laidback yet energetic spirit from Washington, D.C., with a casual attitude that made him seem lazy by his superiors. But the enlisted men liked Dane for his "go-with-the-flow" attitude and overall amiable personality. But this did not deter away from his leadership. He was seen as an excellent soldier and a solid tactician. Travers was lucky that Dane was his squad leader. Dane commanded the respect of most of the men in G Company, most except Sergeant Dan Setzer.

Travers peered over to his far right and eyed Setzer standing next to the side of the tent, arms crossed and with a scrunched up face that looked like he had just swallowed something sour. Travers merely shook his head at the sight. Setzer was a big muscular soldier and was a star athlete from Enid, Oklahoma; holding the record of the fastest time in the five mile run in the whole battalion. Personality-wise, Setzer was the complete opposite of Dane. Setzer took pride in training and aggressiveness in combat; whereas Dane would only train if he thought it was necessary and held more of a defensive mindset. Setzer was serious and strict, whereas Dane was easygoing and flexible. Setzer had often clashed with Sergeant Dane over little trivial matters; and they hold the distinction of being the most infamous rivals in the entire battalion. Their personalities and egos were too colossal for their own good. But on the tactical level, Setzer was second-to-none. Travers recognized he was a skilled NCO, but not the best man to serve under while outside combat.

"Ten-hut!" a captain shouted.

All of G Company stood up from their seats and stood at attention. A sharp-looking officer walked through the crowd wearing silver-oak leaves on his collar and stood in front of podium facing the men of G Company. The officer was the Commander of the 3rd Battalion, Lieutenant Colonel Roger Cage.

"At ease, Airborne. You may take your seats," Cage cleared his throat. The 160 men of G Company took their seats. Cage continued, "Our mission is here. Sicily. The village of Adanti. S-2 is reporting four enemy emplacement of AA Guns located throughout the village. The mission is simple, capture Adanti and knock out the emplacements. Now the capture of Adanti itself is the primary objective. It is vital, I repeat **vital **that Adanti is in Allied hands. Adanti stands right on the middle of a route that leads straight to the beaches where the Invasion forces will be at. Adanti has three roads going in, and three roads going out. The roads directly lead to Gela, Licata, and the Scoglitti beach where the landing forces will come ashore. From Adanti, the Italians and Germans can reinforce and counterattack against the cities and our beachhead, and can effectively drive the invasion force back into the ocean. We will not allow that to happen. So in short, we must take Adanti, disable the AA Guns, and hold Adanti until relieved from the beach forces. You can expect resistance from Italian Blackshirts, but they should consist of inexperienced and ill-trained young men. The Password will be "Cloud" and the countersign will be "Rain"."

_Take a small village from the Italians, hold it, and boom! Done. Sounds easy enough,_ Travers thought to himself with a satisfied smirk.

"This will be our baptism of fire, gentleman. This will be the first time Uncle Sam deploys paratroopers, so we will live up to our expectation. Those silver jumpwings that are pinned to your chest signifies that you are the best of the best. And you will not fail."

For some reason to the men listening, this part of the briefing carried more weight than the actual mission detail. They understood the call that was being asked of them.

With nothing left to say, the Colonel said a simple, "Dismissed, Airborne," and left the tent, preparing on briefing the other companies of the battalion. The men of G Company slowly got out of their chairs and exited the tented area.

"And the award for the dullest speech goes to…," a paratrooper joked with Travers as they left.

Travers chuckled. "Jesus Christ, were you sleeping through that briefing, Reese?"

"I couldn't, Setzer wouldn't take his eyes off of me."

"So that's why he looked like he was going to pass a kidney stone."

The paratrooper scoffed. "That uptight son of a bitch…he really needs to get laid."

Travers chuckled lightly and walked off with the paratrooper. The man besides Travers was Private First Class Reese Taylor from Los Angeles, California. He was 23 years-old and had long curly brown hair, ruggedly handsome, brilliant but lazy. And he was Travers' best friend.

"I'm just saying Boyd," Reese started, "They already briefed us on this jump a dozen fucking times already. I already know what I need to know."

"Doesn't hurt to know all possible scenarios in case something happens."

"Oh come on Travers, what's the worst that can happen?"

"All right then. I want you to remember that when I save your ass on Sicily."

Reese chuckled as he lit a cigarette, "You're going to save my ass? Did I hear that right? Tell you what, I got ten bucks in my pocket. Ten bucks to whoever saves the other's ass first."

Travers cocked a grin. "You got yourself a deal, Reese."

"He Travers, you're good in Italian or Sicilian…or whatever…tell me, how do you say "Ten bucks richer," in Italian?" Reese asked as he pulled out his standard issue woolen cap and wore it. What made Reese's cap so special was that Reese put in his own flamboyant "Los Angeles" taste and sown golden embroidery around the rim of the cap. Travers chuckled loudly.

"How come you laugh your ass off every time I put on my cap?" Reese asked.

"Because it looks like something a woman would wear. Well, what do you expect from some from California."

"Oh Bostonians are just jealous of what we got in the West!"

Travers rolled his eyes. "Yeah…sure we are."

"Golden embroidery. I quite like it."

Travers raised his eyebrow and grinned. "You know, I'm not sure it's going to make a lot of difference to the Italians."

"Oh, I don't know about that. Think about it. You're an Eye-Tie, right? You're standing there thinking about which two paratroopers to shoot. And then you think, "Good Lord, one of them is wearing a very stylish cap!" You might shoot the other one instead."

"Or…now hear me out on this…Or alternatively, he thinks, "I like that cap. That is a nice cap" and kills you first."

Reese's eyes grew large as he considered the very likely possibility. He looked at Travers who was cracking a grin at him. Reese promptly removed his cap.

Travers made a cackling chuckle before patting his best friend on the back and snatching the cap away from Reese. Such brotherly amity as this was held in every member of an Airborne company since basic training. One of the benefits that enlisting in the Airborne provided was that you went through the same basic training with the unit you would be going into combat with. Such a benefit built a stronger bond among the men over years of hard, rigorous training; and instead of being sent out into battle with possible unwilling unknown conscripts, the paratroopers would be sent into the fight with their friends by their side. And G Company was no different.

* * *

**I would wish to say that the 500th Parachute Infantry Regiment is entirely fictional. Just wanted to get that out of there. This entire chapter is just a device to establish some familiarity with future characters and a recall.**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy it and I appreciate that you are continuing to read this!**

**-Kanuro5**


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